FIC: Bedside Manners 1/1 (Sherlock BBC)
Apr. 5th, 2012 06:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
keelywolfeTitle: Bedside Manners
Author: Keelywolfe
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Wordcount:3800
Rating: PG
Pairing(s): John/Sherlock
Warning(s): None
Beta(s): I'd like to thank![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
essie007 and colorfulshadows for taking time out of their busy lives to help me with all the medical information in this story. If George Clooney didn't do it on ER, then I have no clue and they were a huge help. colorfulshadows in particular provided all the terminology that Ian provides in the story and I'll like to give her very thankful credit for it.
Summary: Coming on to night shift was no different as far as Maggie was concerned than a daytime one. Oh, she knew that plenty of other nurses hated the night shift, had trouble sleeping, dealing with the ruckus of the drunken patients but it had never bothered her. The only really difference for Maggie was her caffeine intake and that increased plenty as the night went on.
~~*~~
Coming on to night shift was no different as far as Maggie was concerned than a daytime one. Oh, she knew that plenty of other nurses hated the night shift, had trouble sleeping, dealing with the ruckus of the drunken patients but it had never bothered her. The only really difference for Maggie was her caffeine intake and that increased plenty as the night went on. Sometimes she could gauge how her entire shift had gone by how many paper cups were crumpled into the rubbish bin by the end.
She'd just gotten a fresh cup of coffee, doctoring it with sugar and a healthy dose of milk, before one of the nursing interns came up to the station, chart in hand. A young man, dark haired, and he gave her a grin as he saluted her with the clipboard.
"Evening, Ian," Maggie said, setting aside her cup. Caffeine would have to wait while duty called.
"Evening, Mags. Have a new one in room nine for you," he said, handing her the chart.
She flipped open the first page, scanning over it, "Fell down a flight of stairs, eh?"
Ian snorted, shaking his head, "I know, right? He claims it was about 5-6 stairs, but listen to this: He has right sided rib fractures, a left wrist fracture, some facial bruising and a concussion. A bit more extensive than I'd say from only a bit of a tumble."
"A bit of, yeah," Maggie read down the chart, peering up at Ian with a raised eyebrow, "No alcohol?"
He shook his head, "Not at all, but he was positive for loss of consciousness at the scene. He has a 20 gauge IV in the right hand and bag #2 of fluids hanging at 125 ml/hr. Neuro checks have been fine, but the docs want him to stay in the ED for observation, especially given that his story doesn’t match his injuries."
"I'd say. Any problems I should know about?" She snagged up her coffee and gulped down the last of it, wincing at the burn. Time to get the caffeine flowing and a move on for the night.
"None whatsoever," Ian shrugged, leaning over the counter to snag one of the peppermint humbugs from the little dish hidden under the ledge before Maggie could slap his hand away. "Vital signs are stable. I’ve got him on the pulse ox for the rib fractures, though lung sounds are clear, no crepitus. He never did have any nausea or vomiting, but they were talking about maybe re-scanning his brain the morning to make sure there’s no swelling. He’s a nice guy, hasn't really wanted anything from me, haven’t even given him pain meds. He’ll be fine for you.”
Everything Ian had listed was already written on the chart and Maggie re-read it, just to be sure. It also had his name. Watson, John Hamish. "Long as he stays a nice guy we shouldn't have any trouble. I'll pop in and give him a look over. Thanks, Ian."
He gave her a another sharp grin, one side of his mouth poking out with a cheekful of humbug and Maggie rolled her eyes, hard pressed not to grin herself. Interns got younger every year, didn't they?
Room nine was darkened and quiet except for the hum of the machinery and Maggie gave her sleeping patient a curious look, first checking everything she could without waking him. Fell down a small flight of stairs, he claimed. Not likely, not unless he did it with someone else attached to him, possibly beating on him with something. Curious, it was. No alcohol involved and the jumper poking out of the top of his bag of personal items, despite being speckled with blood, was like what someone's da would wear, no help there. Perhaps he'd been mugged and was too frightened to admit it? Didn't seem likely but Maggie was fresh out of ideas at the moment for Watson, John Hamish.
"Hello, Mr Watson," Maggie said softly and he responded with a sleepy jerk, blinking rapidly up at her from beneath a square of bandage on his forehead. She kept her voice quiet as she checked his blood pressure, his pupil dilation, asked him the date and where he thought he was, both questions which he answered groggily yet correctly. As Ian said, he seemed no trouble, didn't moan about his aches so he likely wasn't drug seeking.
Perhaps he was just as he seemed, a bloke who'd had a bad turn. With any luck, for both of them, he'd stay low maintenance, get a good night's sleep and be off sometime tomorrow. Watson, John Hamish was obviously in agreement with her plan, already drifting off as she noted her check on his chart and she left him to it, off to look in on her other patients.
It was another half a cup of coffee and just over an hour later when she peeked in to check on him again, only to find a strange man in the middle of the room. Trauma didn't have quite the same visiting hours as the rest of the hospital so it wasn't completely odd. That he was flipping through Watson, John Hamish's chart, however, was.
"Can I help you?" she asked, a little sharply. Didn't want to call for security just yet, if it turned out her patient's brother was just curious but she stayed near the open door, just to be careful. The sight of him manhandling her chart made Maggie itch to yank it away from him; she resisted the urge, forced herself to stay out of arm's reach.
The man said nothing, his eyes still on the chart, and Maggie took a step closer to the door.
"Are you family?"
Again, no reply, and the tiny hairs on the back of Maggie's neck were starting to rise. Her desire to protect her patient was starting to lean towards giving a shout for security when the man finally spoke.
"He's allergic to sulpha."
Maggie blinked, one foot already edging into the hallway as she hesitated, "I'm sorry?"
"It's not on his chart. He's allergic to sulpha. Not fatally but it would put him up for a few extra days of misery if he was to be exposed."
"Well, I'll be sure to note that," Maggie said warily.
"Don't bother, I already did. I would have expected even the most mediocre hospital to have that noted though it's possible he didn't mention it, being unconscious as it were." He still hadn't looked up from the chart, addressing Maggie as though she worked just for him and he was sorely disappointed in her work. It made her bristle slightly and she might have had a few choice words over that if Mr Watson hadn't still been sleeping peacefully right next to them.
"Sir, are you family?" Maggie tried again, biting back at her temper. Surely if he knew Watson, John Hamish's allergies there must be some relation here.
"No," the man remarked absently and Maggie stiffened. Enough was enough of this, then.
"Sir, you can't be here," she said firmly.
"Of course," he replied, instantly setting down the chart. He walked out with a swirl of his long coat, stepping around her without so much as giving her an acknowledging glance, like swinging off to the side was simply the normal way of walking for him.
Maggie leaned her head out the door and watched the man turn the corner and vanish while she considered calling security anyway. A soft, discontented sound from the bed caught her attention and she stepped up to Mr Watson quickly. He was sound asleep, his monitors indicating that all was well and he might just have been any sleeping man if it weren't for the stark white of the bandage on his forehead, the purpling bruises forming around one of his eyes. She'd seen enough of that sort of injury to know that unless the stairs had come equipped with fists, he hadn't gotten it from a simple fall.
Everything seemed to be in order, except for the single word added to his chart under allergies.
Sulpha.
Written in a large, flourished script and underlined sharply. Maggie shook her head and left it as it was, although she did take the time to make a wrist band for her patient to indicate the allergy. Even if she didn't appreciate the source, she certainly understood the need to have that bit of information noted and added a note herself to inquire why it hadn't been on the chart to begin with.
Another coffee and sometime later, she'd nearly forgotten about him, her strange man in long coat. Not all her patients were as easy-going and low maintenance tonight and when she finally had the chance to pop back into Watson, John Hamish's room, Maggie startled so badly she had to cover her mouth to stifle her cry.
The man was standing just inside the door, a tall, imposing form and with his face shadowed in the darkened room it was enough to give anyone a fright.
Surprise shifted quickly to irritation, "Just what do you think you're—"
"He is supposed to be monitored frequently. You have not been here to check on him in over two hours." His eyes bored into hers accusingly.
"Yes, well--" She started before remembering he wasn't a doctor. "You can't be here," she said firmly. He ignored that, picking up the chart and instantly her hackles rose. This time, she did snatch it away from him, clutching it protectively to her chest.
"His blood pressure is still slightly elevated," he said as though he hadn't even noticed, pale eyes flicking briefly towards her.
"Sir, if you aren’t family, I'm going to have to ask you to leave!"
He did, without a sound or a sigh of protest, his back still stiff with indignation and Maggie shut the door behind him firmly, turning back to her patient.
Still sound asleep, his monitors still indicating his status as acceptable. Blood pressure was a little elevated but Watson, John Hamish seemed to be sleeping restlessly and that was the likely culprit.
It wasn't until she turned to step back out of the room that she noticed her patient had acquired another blanket from somewhere, tucked firmly around him and even under his feet.
Of all the things, she sighed inwardly. It seemed one of her patients had decided to bring along a surly guardian angel.
It set the tone for the rest of the night. Stopping by Watson, John Hamish's room inevitably revealed a tall, dark stranger, frequently medical chart in hand and when Maggie checked it later she would find notes on blood pressure, bandages being changed, pupil dilation, all in that same flourished script. He would vanish soon after she arrived if it weren't for the fact that she was seeing him with her own eyes, Maggie might have started wondering about her caffeine intake.
Honestly, she should have called security by now and had it been any other night, she would've. Getting soft, she supposed.
If she were truthful, it was the sulpha that made her hesitate. Barring something obvious, like peanuts, allergies were a bit of an intimate thing, particularly pharmaceutical ones; you tended to know someone well enough if they were confessing those kinds of weaknesses to you.
Next time she clapped eyes on him, she would get him booted out, she decided. Even if this man did know Watson, John Hamish, there was no telling that Mr Watson would want him in the room or even if this man had put him in the room. It wouldn't be the first time a person's partner had beaten them and then sat sweet and concerned at their bedside. That might just explain the falling down the stairs story in a way that Maggie had heard too many times before.
Her resolve weakened when she stepped into the room again and saw him at the side of the bed. Her mysterious stranger had acquired a chair from someplace, not the normal hard-backed visitor chair but a padded office one and he had pulled it up close to the side of the bed. Watson, John Hamish had been quite banged up, his knuckles scraped and bruised, and a much worse nurse than Maggie would have recognized them as self-defence wounds. The strange man at his side had one of her patient's hands between his own, the one not immobilized for a fractured wrist. He was examining it, scrutinizing it, really; peering at the nails, checking each abrasion and then-- pulling that lax hand up to his lips and holding it there. Not a kiss, precisely, only held there, as though taking Mr Watson's pulse with his mouth.
Perhaps he was.
"Sir—" She started, uncertainly, her already wavering determination sliding into pure indecision, and a soft knock at the door interrupted them. She frowned at the tall man leaning in until he flipped open his ID card to show Detective Inspector listed on it, along with his picture.
Well, at least this was a situation she was accustomed to handling. "I'm sorry, but Mr Watson is in no condition to answer any questions."
"Not here for him," the Inspector said, a bit shortly, but his eyes were on the man in the chair. Maggie stepped back, warily. Perhaps she should have called for Security after all.
The Inspector didn't seem overly concerned, only stepped up to the man, who hadn't moved, although he'd laid down Watson, John Hamish's hand with the same care that parents used with their new-born children.
"Detective Inspector," the man said, with quiet politeness.
The Inspector sighed and rubbed at his eyes as though they ached. "Mind telling me just what you did to the poor bastard? He's downstairs in the Emergency Department."
"No." He kept his hand on the blanket and from this angle Maggie could see that her mysterious man in the long coat had two split knuckles, a collection of his own bruises on his hands cataloguing an unknown battle. Her own fancifulness made her suppress a snorting chuckle. It was getting more likely this was just another bar fight that no one wanted to admit blame in, though neither this man nor Mr Watson seemed like the pub type.
"See, he swears up and down that he fell down a flight of stairs. Babbling on about it, really," the Inspector sounded weary, tucking his hands into his pockets, "And somehow he ended up accidentally handcuffed to a street lamp."
"Imaginative."
"I thought so, too. Seems to be a rash of people taking a tumble down stairs, tonight," the Inspector shifted on his feet, took a step closer. "So what did you do to him?"
As she watched, the strange man reached up and brushed his fingertips over a purpling bruise on Mr Watson's forehead, his thumb skirting the puffy edges. The large, white bandage covered the rest of the damage, hiding, Maggie knew, a swollen lump. "John has a concussion."
The detective sighed. "Yeah, I heard. Spoke to his doctor before I came up. Don’t suppose I really needed to, did I, could have guessed how he was. Do my own deductions, like."
"Multiple contusions. A fractured wrist."
"You going to give me the laundry list or are you going to tell me what happened?" he demanded.
"Fractured ribs…" he trailed off on a soft murmur, and then straightened, his face visibly emptying of emotion. The sight of it made Maggie want to take a step back; such a visual shedding of emotion didn't even seem humanly possible. "I'm not sure I recall, Detective," he said calmly. "Shock, I suppose."
"I don't see a blanket, Sherlock," he said sharply then sighed, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. "Why am I trying, you're useless tonight." He crammed his notebook back into the pocket of his suit coat, stabbing a finger at them, "When he is on his feet again, you are coming down to the station and we're going to have a long chat."
He stalked towards the door and she hastily stepped aside, only to blink in surprise when he stopped, "If you're here to kick him out, you're wasting more time than I was."
"Critical patients can only have family as visitors," Maggie said automatically. She ignored the fact that she hadn't been enforcing that rule for most of her shift now.
The inspector slanted a glance back at the two men, both still and silent, although her mystery man had picked up Mr Watson's hand again, cradling it between his own. "He is family. Everything but the paperwork. Just let him stay, all right? Save me a headache."
Maggie hesitated; the Inspector had no clout in telling her how to care for her patients and yet, she nodded, silently, and the relieved look he gave her eased some of her worries. Whoever this man was, he didn't seem likely to hurt Mr Watson. If she'd heard right it seemed as though the exact opposite was true.
She waited until the Inspector had gone and then marched up to the bedside, leaned over the stranger, Sherlock, it seemed, and took Mr Watson's pulse. Checked the readings on the monitors, looked at his various wounds, at the swelling in his wrist and ignored every glare that Mr Sherlock sent her, particularly when she tugged the chart clipboard out from underneath his arm. Maggie filled out her segment in her own tidy handwriting and this time she took the chart with her as she was leaving. She did have other patients to check on.
When she stopped by again, he was still in the chair, his head pillowed on his folded arms. Maggie thought he was sleeping and came in as quietly as she could on rubber-soled feet. She hadn't made it three steps when his eyes opened, regarding her silently as she came closer.
His eyes never left her, just watched her with that unnerving stare and they both startled when another weary hand introduced itself, settling gently on the tangled mop of dark hair, stark against the white sheets.
"Hello, there," Mr Watson said, his voice rusty-raw, and he petted her, well, no, it would be his strange man's hair with the hand that didn't have a fractured wrist. Threading his fingers through dark curls and their strange man, Sherlock, closed his eyes again.
"Hello and how are you feeling?" Maggie said softly, quickly checking him over, taking the time to glance at his pupils and see that they hadn't changed. He smiled up at her with much the same charm every sleepy, well-doused patient had in the middle of the night.
"Like someone beat me about the head and knocked me down a flight of stairs," he said, dryly, and his companion made a soft noise, one that Mr Watson petted gently away. "And you. I know very well you aren't supposed to be here but I'm not going to ask since I don't think I want to know. Have you alienated the entire floor yet or d'you think I can get a bit of a drink?"
"Ice chips, John," Sherlock said, low. "No fluids or solid food for the first six hours."
"And you’re the expert now? I do know the routine," he said but the exasperation in his voice was laced with fondness.
Maggie cleared her throat, loathe to interrupt, "I'll get you some, Mr Watson."
"Doctor Watson," the other man, Sherlock, corrected sharply.
Mr--no, Doctor Watson, chuckled wearily, "Do not annoy the nurses, Sherlock; they have ways of making people suffer that even you couldn't dream up. Ice chips would be lovely, miss, ta."
Before either of them could peep out another word, their strange man was on his feet, gently drawing Doctor Watson's hand free of his hair before he was gone in a swirl of long coat.
Well…that was strange, wasn’t it. Came and went like the tide, he did. Maggie busied herself taking Doctor Watson's blood pressure, venturing, "Your partner is very dedicated."
"He's not—" Automatic, bitten off. "Yeah, well, that's not what people normally say."
"What do people normally say?"
"If I told you that, I'd spend the rest of the night in the psych ward," Doctor Watson said wryly, "If you're testing my neuro function, best I just stick to the date and where I am."
"Right then," Maggie said. She felt a little mixed up and bewildered, as though she were Alice and instead of chasing the white rabbit he kept turning up unexpectedly beneath her feet. "I'll just get you those ice chips."
Doctor Watson had already sunk back into the pillows, the garish white a blunt contrast to his bruises, and closed his eyes. "Don't bother; he went off to find some." No question that he would.
"Well…" she hesitated, "Get some rest then. I'll pop in to check on you in a bit. You just press the button if you need anything."
"I will," Doctor Watson said with a sleepy smile.
"And tell your friend that if touches my chart again, he's going to get a matching concussion," she warned, only mostly joking.
One blue eye, the one not swelling shut, opened to look at her in horror, "He didn't—oh, never mind, of course he did. I'll tell him. If you do have to punch him, try to avoid the nose and teeth, would you?"
Maggie gave him her own cheeky grin and wink at that, "Do my best, love." And she would. Annoying as Doctor Watson's partner was, neither was she blind. Besides, any injury she did him she'd have to treat and just the thought of having him under her care for a night gave her the creepers.
The good doctor was already more asleep than not and probably wouldn't get a chance to try those ice chips. Still, she had no doubt that when she returned there would be a plastic cup of dwindling chips drowning in meltwater and a tall man folded into a chair, watching Watson, John Hamish, MD, sleeping.
The chart she kept with her, taking it along every time she went in for a check throughout the night and filled it with her own handwriting, noting his blood pressure, pulse, and temp. She didn't mention the spiral notebook that appeared as if from nowhere, hung in place of the chart she refused now to leave behind and filled with line after line documenting Doctor Watson's condition in a flowing script, far more detailed than any hospital would expect of even the finest of nurses. At the top of it, in large, neat letters, visible even from across the room, was noted an allergy for sulpha.
--fin
Author: Keelywolfe
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Wordcount:3800
Rating: PG
Pairing(s): John/Sherlock
Warning(s): None
Beta(s): I'd like to thank
essie007 and colorfulshadows for taking time out of their busy lives to help me with all the medical information in this story. If George Clooney didn't do it on ER, then I have no clue and they were a huge help. colorfulshadows in particular provided all the terminology that Ian provides in the story and I'll like to give her very thankful credit for it.Summary: Coming on to night shift was no different as far as Maggie was concerned than a daytime one. Oh, she knew that plenty of other nurses hated the night shift, had trouble sleeping, dealing with the ruckus of the drunken patients but it had never bothered her. The only really difference for Maggie was her caffeine intake and that increased plenty as the night went on.
~~*~~
Coming on to night shift was no different as far as Maggie was concerned than a daytime one. Oh, she knew that plenty of other nurses hated the night shift, had trouble sleeping, dealing with the ruckus of the drunken patients but it had never bothered her. The only really difference for Maggie was her caffeine intake and that increased plenty as the night went on. Sometimes she could gauge how her entire shift had gone by how many paper cups were crumpled into the rubbish bin by the end.
She'd just gotten a fresh cup of coffee, doctoring it with sugar and a healthy dose of milk, before one of the nursing interns came up to the station, chart in hand. A young man, dark haired, and he gave her a grin as he saluted her with the clipboard.
"Evening, Ian," Maggie said, setting aside her cup. Caffeine would have to wait while duty called.
"Evening, Mags. Have a new one in room nine for you," he said, handing her the chart.
She flipped open the first page, scanning over it, "Fell down a flight of stairs, eh?"
Ian snorted, shaking his head, "I know, right? He claims it was about 5-6 stairs, but listen to this: He has right sided rib fractures, a left wrist fracture, some facial bruising and a concussion. A bit more extensive than I'd say from only a bit of a tumble."
"A bit of, yeah," Maggie read down the chart, peering up at Ian with a raised eyebrow, "No alcohol?"
He shook his head, "Not at all, but he was positive for loss of consciousness at the scene. He has a 20 gauge IV in the right hand and bag #2 of fluids hanging at 125 ml/hr. Neuro checks have been fine, but the docs want him to stay in the ED for observation, especially given that his story doesn’t match his injuries."
"I'd say. Any problems I should know about?" She snagged up her coffee and gulped down the last of it, wincing at the burn. Time to get the caffeine flowing and a move on for the night.
"None whatsoever," Ian shrugged, leaning over the counter to snag one of the peppermint humbugs from the little dish hidden under the ledge before Maggie could slap his hand away. "Vital signs are stable. I’ve got him on the pulse ox for the rib fractures, though lung sounds are clear, no crepitus. He never did have any nausea or vomiting, but they were talking about maybe re-scanning his brain the morning to make sure there’s no swelling. He’s a nice guy, hasn't really wanted anything from me, haven’t even given him pain meds. He’ll be fine for you.”
Everything Ian had listed was already written on the chart and Maggie re-read it, just to be sure. It also had his name. Watson, John Hamish. "Long as he stays a nice guy we shouldn't have any trouble. I'll pop in and give him a look over. Thanks, Ian."
He gave her a another sharp grin, one side of his mouth poking out with a cheekful of humbug and Maggie rolled her eyes, hard pressed not to grin herself. Interns got younger every year, didn't they?
Room nine was darkened and quiet except for the hum of the machinery and Maggie gave her sleeping patient a curious look, first checking everything she could without waking him. Fell down a small flight of stairs, he claimed. Not likely, not unless he did it with someone else attached to him, possibly beating on him with something. Curious, it was. No alcohol involved and the jumper poking out of the top of his bag of personal items, despite being speckled with blood, was like what someone's da would wear, no help there. Perhaps he'd been mugged and was too frightened to admit it? Didn't seem likely but Maggie was fresh out of ideas at the moment for Watson, John Hamish.
"Hello, Mr Watson," Maggie said softly and he responded with a sleepy jerk, blinking rapidly up at her from beneath a square of bandage on his forehead. She kept her voice quiet as she checked his blood pressure, his pupil dilation, asked him the date and where he thought he was, both questions which he answered groggily yet correctly. As Ian said, he seemed no trouble, didn't moan about his aches so he likely wasn't drug seeking.
Perhaps he was just as he seemed, a bloke who'd had a bad turn. With any luck, for both of them, he'd stay low maintenance, get a good night's sleep and be off sometime tomorrow. Watson, John Hamish was obviously in agreement with her plan, already drifting off as she noted her check on his chart and she left him to it, off to look in on her other patients.
It was another half a cup of coffee and just over an hour later when she peeked in to check on him again, only to find a strange man in the middle of the room. Trauma didn't have quite the same visiting hours as the rest of the hospital so it wasn't completely odd. That he was flipping through Watson, John Hamish's chart, however, was.
"Can I help you?" she asked, a little sharply. Didn't want to call for security just yet, if it turned out her patient's brother was just curious but she stayed near the open door, just to be careful. The sight of him manhandling her chart made Maggie itch to yank it away from him; she resisted the urge, forced herself to stay out of arm's reach.
The man said nothing, his eyes still on the chart, and Maggie took a step closer to the door.
"Are you family?"
Again, no reply, and the tiny hairs on the back of Maggie's neck were starting to rise. Her desire to protect her patient was starting to lean towards giving a shout for security when the man finally spoke.
"He's allergic to sulpha."
Maggie blinked, one foot already edging into the hallway as she hesitated, "I'm sorry?"
"It's not on his chart. He's allergic to sulpha. Not fatally but it would put him up for a few extra days of misery if he was to be exposed."
"Well, I'll be sure to note that," Maggie said warily.
"Don't bother, I already did. I would have expected even the most mediocre hospital to have that noted though it's possible he didn't mention it, being unconscious as it were." He still hadn't looked up from the chart, addressing Maggie as though she worked just for him and he was sorely disappointed in her work. It made her bristle slightly and she might have had a few choice words over that if Mr Watson hadn't still been sleeping peacefully right next to them.
"Sir, are you family?" Maggie tried again, biting back at her temper. Surely if he knew Watson, John Hamish's allergies there must be some relation here.
"No," the man remarked absently and Maggie stiffened. Enough was enough of this, then.
"Sir, you can't be here," she said firmly.
"Of course," he replied, instantly setting down the chart. He walked out with a swirl of his long coat, stepping around her without so much as giving her an acknowledging glance, like swinging off to the side was simply the normal way of walking for him.
Maggie leaned her head out the door and watched the man turn the corner and vanish while she considered calling security anyway. A soft, discontented sound from the bed caught her attention and she stepped up to Mr Watson quickly. He was sound asleep, his monitors indicating that all was well and he might just have been any sleeping man if it weren't for the stark white of the bandage on his forehead, the purpling bruises forming around one of his eyes. She'd seen enough of that sort of injury to know that unless the stairs had come equipped with fists, he hadn't gotten it from a simple fall.
Everything seemed to be in order, except for the single word added to his chart under allergies.
Sulpha.
Written in a large, flourished script and underlined sharply. Maggie shook her head and left it as it was, although she did take the time to make a wrist band for her patient to indicate the allergy. Even if she didn't appreciate the source, she certainly understood the need to have that bit of information noted and added a note herself to inquire why it hadn't been on the chart to begin with.
Another coffee and sometime later, she'd nearly forgotten about him, her strange man in long coat. Not all her patients were as easy-going and low maintenance tonight and when she finally had the chance to pop back into Watson, John Hamish's room, Maggie startled so badly she had to cover her mouth to stifle her cry.
The man was standing just inside the door, a tall, imposing form and with his face shadowed in the darkened room it was enough to give anyone a fright.
Surprise shifted quickly to irritation, "Just what do you think you're—"
"He is supposed to be monitored frequently. You have not been here to check on him in over two hours." His eyes bored into hers accusingly.
"Yes, well--" She started before remembering he wasn't a doctor. "You can't be here," she said firmly. He ignored that, picking up the chart and instantly her hackles rose. This time, she did snatch it away from him, clutching it protectively to her chest.
"His blood pressure is still slightly elevated," he said as though he hadn't even noticed, pale eyes flicking briefly towards her.
"Sir, if you aren’t family, I'm going to have to ask you to leave!"
He did, without a sound or a sigh of protest, his back still stiff with indignation and Maggie shut the door behind him firmly, turning back to her patient.
Still sound asleep, his monitors still indicating his status as acceptable. Blood pressure was a little elevated but Watson, John Hamish seemed to be sleeping restlessly and that was the likely culprit.
It wasn't until she turned to step back out of the room that she noticed her patient had acquired another blanket from somewhere, tucked firmly around him and even under his feet.
Of all the things, she sighed inwardly. It seemed one of her patients had decided to bring along a surly guardian angel.
It set the tone for the rest of the night. Stopping by Watson, John Hamish's room inevitably revealed a tall, dark stranger, frequently medical chart in hand and when Maggie checked it later she would find notes on blood pressure, bandages being changed, pupil dilation, all in that same flourished script. He would vanish soon after she arrived if it weren't for the fact that she was seeing him with her own eyes, Maggie might have started wondering about her caffeine intake.
Honestly, she should have called security by now and had it been any other night, she would've. Getting soft, she supposed.
If she were truthful, it was the sulpha that made her hesitate. Barring something obvious, like peanuts, allergies were a bit of an intimate thing, particularly pharmaceutical ones; you tended to know someone well enough if they were confessing those kinds of weaknesses to you.
Next time she clapped eyes on him, she would get him booted out, she decided. Even if this man did know Watson, John Hamish, there was no telling that Mr Watson would want him in the room or even if this man had put him in the room. It wouldn't be the first time a person's partner had beaten them and then sat sweet and concerned at their bedside. That might just explain the falling down the stairs story in a way that Maggie had heard too many times before.
Her resolve weakened when she stepped into the room again and saw him at the side of the bed. Her mysterious stranger had acquired a chair from someplace, not the normal hard-backed visitor chair but a padded office one and he had pulled it up close to the side of the bed. Watson, John Hamish had been quite banged up, his knuckles scraped and bruised, and a much worse nurse than Maggie would have recognized them as self-defence wounds. The strange man at his side had one of her patient's hands between his own, the one not immobilized for a fractured wrist. He was examining it, scrutinizing it, really; peering at the nails, checking each abrasion and then-- pulling that lax hand up to his lips and holding it there. Not a kiss, precisely, only held there, as though taking Mr Watson's pulse with his mouth.
Perhaps he was.
"Sir—" She started, uncertainly, her already wavering determination sliding into pure indecision, and a soft knock at the door interrupted them. She frowned at the tall man leaning in until he flipped open his ID card to show Detective Inspector listed on it, along with his picture.
Well, at least this was a situation she was accustomed to handling. "I'm sorry, but Mr Watson is in no condition to answer any questions."
"Not here for him," the Inspector said, a bit shortly, but his eyes were on the man in the chair. Maggie stepped back, warily. Perhaps she should have called for Security after all.
The Inspector didn't seem overly concerned, only stepped up to the man, who hadn't moved, although he'd laid down Watson, John Hamish's hand with the same care that parents used with their new-born children.
"Detective Inspector," the man said, with quiet politeness.
The Inspector sighed and rubbed at his eyes as though they ached. "Mind telling me just what you did to the poor bastard? He's downstairs in the Emergency Department."
"No." He kept his hand on the blanket and from this angle Maggie could see that her mysterious man in the long coat had two split knuckles, a collection of his own bruises on his hands cataloguing an unknown battle. Her own fancifulness made her suppress a snorting chuckle. It was getting more likely this was just another bar fight that no one wanted to admit blame in, though neither this man nor Mr Watson seemed like the pub type.
"See, he swears up and down that he fell down a flight of stairs. Babbling on about it, really," the Inspector sounded weary, tucking his hands into his pockets, "And somehow he ended up accidentally handcuffed to a street lamp."
"Imaginative."
"I thought so, too. Seems to be a rash of people taking a tumble down stairs, tonight," the Inspector shifted on his feet, took a step closer. "So what did you do to him?"
As she watched, the strange man reached up and brushed his fingertips over a purpling bruise on Mr Watson's forehead, his thumb skirting the puffy edges. The large, white bandage covered the rest of the damage, hiding, Maggie knew, a swollen lump. "John has a concussion."
The detective sighed. "Yeah, I heard. Spoke to his doctor before I came up. Don’t suppose I really needed to, did I, could have guessed how he was. Do my own deductions, like."
"Multiple contusions. A fractured wrist."
"You going to give me the laundry list or are you going to tell me what happened?" he demanded.
"Fractured ribs…" he trailed off on a soft murmur, and then straightened, his face visibly emptying of emotion. The sight of it made Maggie want to take a step back; such a visual shedding of emotion didn't even seem humanly possible. "I'm not sure I recall, Detective," he said calmly. "Shock, I suppose."
"I don't see a blanket, Sherlock," he said sharply then sighed, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. "Why am I trying, you're useless tonight." He crammed his notebook back into the pocket of his suit coat, stabbing a finger at them, "When he is on his feet again, you are coming down to the station and we're going to have a long chat."
He stalked towards the door and she hastily stepped aside, only to blink in surprise when he stopped, "If you're here to kick him out, you're wasting more time than I was."
"Critical patients can only have family as visitors," Maggie said automatically. She ignored the fact that she hadn't been enforcing that rule for most of her shift now.
The inspector slanted a glance back at the two men, both still and silent, although her mystery man had picked up Mr Watson's hand again, cradling it between his own. "He is family. Everything but the paperwork. Just let him stay, all right? Save me a headache."
Maggie hesitated; the Inspector had no clout in telling her how to care for her patients and yet, she nodded, silently, and the relieved look he gave her eased some of her worries. Whoever this man was, he didn't seem likely to hurt Mr Watson. If she'd heard right it seemed as though the exact opposite was true.
She waited until the Inspector had gone and then marched up to the bedside, leaned over the stranger, Sherlock, it seemed, and took Mr Watson's pulse. Checked the readings on the monitors, looked at his various wounds, at the swelling in his wrist and ignored every glare that Mr Sherlock sent her, particularly when she tugged the chart clipboard out from underneath his arm. Maggie filled out her segment in her own tidy handwriting and this time she took the chart with her as she was leaving. She did have other patients to check on.
When she stopped by again, he was still in the chair, his head pillowed on his folded arms. Maggie thought he was sleeping and came in as quietly as she could on rubber-soled feet. She hadn't made it three steps when his eyes opened, regarding her silently as she came closer.
His eyes never left her, just watched her with that unnerving stare and they both startled when another weary hand introduced itself, settling gently on the tangled mop of dark hair, stark against the white sheets.
"Hello, there," Mr Watson said, his voice rusty-raw, and he petted her, well, no, it would be his strange man's hair with the hand that didn't have a fractured wrist. Threading his fingers through dark curls and their strange man, Sherlock, closed his eyes again.
"Hello and how are you feeling?" Maggie said softly, quickly checking him over, taking the time to glance at his pupils and see that they hadn't changed. He smiled up at her with much the same charm every sleepy, well-doused patient had in the middle of the night.
"Like someone beat me about the head and knocked me down a flight of stairs," he said, dryly, and his companion made a soft noise, one that Mr Watson petted gently away. "And you. I know very well you aren't supposed to be here but I'm not going to ask since I don't think I want to know. Have you alienated the entire floor yet or d'you think I can get a bit of a drink?"
"Ice chips, John," Sherlock said, low. "No fluids or solid food for the first six hours."
"And you’re the expert now? I do know the routine," he said but the exasperation in his voice was laced with fondness.
Maggie cleared her throat, loathe to interrupt, "I'll get you some, Mr Watson."
"Doctor Watson," the other man, Sherlock, corrected sharply.
Mr--no, Doctor Watson, chuckled wearily, "Do not annoy the nurses, Sherlock; they have ways of making people suffer that even you couldn't dream up. Ice chips would be lovely, miss, ta."
Before either of them could peep out another word, their strange man was on his feet, gently drawing Doctor Watson's hand free of his hair before he was gone in a swirl of long coat.
Well…that was strange, wasn’t it. Came and went like the tide, he did. Maggie busied herself taking Doctor Watson's blood pressure, venturing, "Your partner is very dedicated."
"He's not—" Automatic, bitten off. "Yeah, well, that's not what people normally say."
"What do people normally say?"
"If I told you that, I'd spend the rest of the night in the psych ward," Doctor Watson said wryly, "If you're testing my neuro function, best I just stick to the date and where I am."
"Right then," Maggie said. She felt a little mixed up and bewildered, as though she were Alice and instead of chasing the white rabbit he kept turning up unexpectedly beneath her feet. "I'll just get you those ice chips."
Doctor Watson had already sunk back into the pillows, the garish white a blunt contrast to his bruises, and closed his eyes. "Don't bother; he went off to find some." No question that he would.
"Well…" she hesitated, "Get some rest then. I'll pop in to check on you in a bit. You just press the button if you need anything."
"I will," Doctor Watson said with a sleepy smile.
"And tell your friend that if touches my chart again, he's going to get a matching concussion," she warned, only mostly joking.
One blue eye, the one not swelling shut, opened to look at her in horror, "He didn't—oh, never mind, of course he did. I'll tell him. If you do have to punch him, try to avoid the nose and teeth, would you?"
Maggie gave him her own cheeky grin and wink at that, "Do my best, love." And she would. Annoying as Doctor Watson's partner was, neither was she blind. Besides, any injury she did him she'd have to treat and just the thought of having him under her care for a night gave her the creepers.
The good doctor was already more asleep than not and probably wouldn't get a chance to try those ice chips. Still, she had no doubt that when she returned there would be a plastic cup of dwindling chips drowning in meltwater and a tall man folded into a chair, watching Watson, John Hamish, MD, sleeping.
The chart she kept with her, taking it along every time she went in for a check throughout the night and filled it with her own handwriting, noting his blood pressure, pulse, and temp. She didn't mention the spiral notebook that appeared as if from nowhere, hung in place of the chart she refused now to leave behind and filled with line after line documenting Doctor Watson's condition in a flowing script, far more detailed than any hospital would expect of even the finest of nurses. At the top of it, in large, neat letters, visible even from across the room, was noted an allergy for sulpha.
--fin
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Date: 2012-04-06 12:00 am (UTC)Incidentally, that bit where Sherlock held John's hand up to his mouth -- was he a) really taking John's pulse or otherwise monitoring him with his lips b) checking for contact poisons or similar or c) was that a private kiss while John was unconscious?
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Date: 2012-04-13 01:59 am (UTC)I shall leave that up to the reader. I know which one I'd pick. ;)
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Date: 2012-04-06 12:33 am (UTC)Also, Sherlock's notebook at the end there made my heart melt. Oh Sherlock, you express your love in such weird ways.
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Date: 2012-04-06 07:26 am (UTC)*swoons*
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Date: 2012-04-13 02:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-06 09:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-13 02:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-06 09:11 am (UTC)The picture of Sherlock resting restless at John's bedside is just heart-wrenchingly beautiful and also somehow just very very right.
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Date: 2012-04-13 02:04 am (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2012-04-06 09:59 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2012-04-06 10:42 pm (UTC)That spiral notebook: a love letter.
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Date: 2012-04-13 02:07 am (UTC)Sherlock's version of it, yes. Thank you for reading!
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Date: 2012-04-07 05:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-13 02:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-07 02:06 pm (UTC)I loved the change in point of view here with Maggie, too. So many fics deal with John or Sherlock's POV or are omniscient; I loved seeing their interaction and relationship from an objective viewer.
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Date: 2012-04-08 06:32 pm (UTC)*adds to memories*
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Date: 2012-04-12 09:08 am (UTC)Sherlock is so touching in his bristly way, i love the Alice analogy, a rabbit running around under her feet. :) And the nurse has just enough characterization for me to like and connect with her, without her overpowering the story. The recurring "Watson, John Hamish" element is just icing on the cake. Especially when she adds MD at the end. :D
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Date: 2012-04-13 02:11 am (UTC)I'm delighted that you enjoyed the story, thank you for taking the time to comment. :)
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Date: 2012-04-23 06:57 am (UTC)